One of the Few
by Kataraang0
Summary: "Living with you has really helped me to understand sentiment. Almost everything you do is because you care." Life post-Reichenbach.
1. Waiting

**One of the Few**

The door to the flat swings open violently, a tall man in a long black coat rushes inside followed by a mousy brunette who hurriedly bolts the door behind them.

Molly sighs and falls against the barrier.

"We made it." she says breathlessly, smiling to herself.

Sherlock says nothing as he skims her apartment. Plain. Some photographs here and there. The kitchen is off to his left, the only aspect separating it from the living room being the tiled floor versus the carpeted one and the slight arch in the wall between the coat rack and the hallway leading to Molly's bedroom. On the right wall of the living room, beyond the slightly tattered couch and flat-screen television, is a window; a scratching post for a cat with a small house on the top; and a keyboard. As in the musical instrument. This surprises Sherlock. He was unaware Molly could play. He looks down as Molly's white cat with gray stripes round his eyes, Toby by name, threads between his legs.

Sherlock takes a few more steps into his present living quarters.

Molly slowly rises from her position slumped against the entry way. She's not smiling anymore.

"Sherlock?" she asks, sensing his uncomfortable demeanour, "I...erm...I hope this is...okay. For now."

He nods silently. Then he turns and walks toward her. He stops in front of her, not looking at her but above her. He slowly takes off his coat and scarf. Molly finds it very hard to breathe. He's closer than he was in the morgue last night.

It had all started last night. The beginning of the end had started last night. And life as they had known it had ended only a few minutes ago.

Sherlock places his coat and scarf on the coat rack on Molly's left. She feels a sob catch in her throat.

And he looks down at her.

Their eyes meet and both seem very sad. How interesting.

_We have no reasons to be sad_. Sherlock thinks, _Especially me. Why would I ever have a reason to be _sad_? I don't have any reason to feel troubled to any degree. I'm perfectly fine, thank you, no use in enquiring, so..._

"Leave me alone." he whispers.

"Erm." Molly says, "Ok. Of course. Erm. Can I get through?"

He steps back and follows her down the hallway to her bedroom. There are two other doors in the hallway. One, Sherlock infers, is a bathroom, the other a closet. He catches a small glimpse of Molly's room from his peripheral vision as she opens the door. Cluttered. Clothes lightly strewn on the floor. Dresser jumbled with make-up that is hardly used, two jewellery boxes, and a vase with fake flowers. There is a circular mirror attached to her dresser in which Sherlock spies the small notebook just protruding from under her pillow. Molly re-enters the hallway and shuts her bedroom door behind her.

"Would you like some tea?" she asks.

"Tea would be lovely."

He trudges back to the living room after her and flumps himself on the couch.

After a few minutes of silence (except the gurgle of a tea kettle and the tinkling of spoons against mug rims), a blue and white striped mug is placed on the coffee table near Sherlock's ambiguous visage. Molly sits in her armchair, nervously clutching her cup of tea but not drinking it. It's far too hot right now anyways.

Sherlock's fingers, steepled beneath his chin, twitch. His face remains stoic.

But Molly knows him better. She can see past his charade. She can see things about him that he can't even see about himself.

She doesn't speak. She had been debating it. But now is not the time. Not immediately after everything that's happened.

So she remains silent. As does the man on her couch.

Molly stares at Sherlock for a while, taking a few sips from her tea. He hardly makes any movement. He seems exceptionally tense and troubled. What must he be going through? Even the great Sherlock Holmes had to have been affected by what he had just done.

In fact, she knew he had been. She had seen it. In the morgue.

_I'm not okay._

And it's true. Even if he hadn't known exactly what Moriraty had been planning, it made him upset to know what his nemesis had had in mind. Sherlock hadn't wanted to die a failure or fraud to anyone, especially his friends and, even more especially, himself.

Molly bites her tongue. There will be time for talking, she knows. He plans on utilizing her abode for at least three months. So she can not bother him for the first few hours.

Molly takes another sip of her tea. And waits.

**A/N So, yeah. I know it's been forever, but let me tell you, it will be worth it! Also, I don't know if I'll continue my other story (Unremembered), but I promise I will finish this one!**


	2. Falling

Molly dashes into the morgue.

What the hell just happened?

She forces herself to breathe slower and calm her racing nerves. She closes her eyes and leans slightly against the door. She can still see it.

See him.

_She is screaming, internally._

_He is falling, externally._

_Just another blow at his horribly bruised ego, but now it's not simply psychological._

_The descent is slow._

_Painfully slow._

_So slow, and Molly wants time to freeze already so she can catch him and save him right there._

_She wants time to reverse._

_But time does neither of these things._

_Suddenly, he's made it to the bottom, the ground, the end of the fall._

_His supposedly lifeless form is splayed on the pavement._

_She almost messes everything up by giving him first aid then and there instead of the chemical solution that will cause Sherlock to really appear dead. _

_Her nervous hands fumble with the blood pouch she is to pour over him. _

_She jumps slightly, almost dropping the plastic container, as she hears Doctor Watson coming closer, calling for his friend. _

_She quickly gets into the laundry lorry that had cushioned Sherlock's fall and drives to the appropriate place._

Sherlock's body is rushed in, seeming to need medical assistance of the type a dead body shouldn't need.

"Thank you." Molly says quickly, getting a strange look from a passerby in the hall, as she hurriedly takes Sherlock to the far end of the room. The paramedics leave and Molly locks the door behind them.

She turns back and almost trips as she darts to her friend.

She yanks on a pair of rubber gloves and plunges a syringe into Sherlock's arm. Her breath catches in her throat as she waits for his pulse to start up again. She feels it lightly through her gloved fingers grasping his wrist and sighs. His eyes open slowly, as if from sleep and he tries to sit up.

"Sh! Sh. Don't...don't sit-up." Molly says and gently restrains him.

"Molly?"

She blushes slightly at him remembering it was indeed her, and not John, who had saved him.

"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock's brows furrow slightly, his eyes glazed, "Of course you're not."

Molly smiles at him and wipes his blood soaked hair from his forehead.

"I'll be right back." she says and goes to get a wet rag.

"Molly?" he calls quietly after her, "Didn't you just say..."

She can't hear his slurred mumbling from her position at the sink, the running water and the cabinet doors opening and closing. She's back as quick as she can be, carefully pressing the cloth to her patient's head, as if the blood was his own.

Sherlock frowns and opens his mouth to protest or perhaps to mention how foolish she is acting, but instead hisses in pain.

Molly flinches, "Sorry."

Sherlock sighs quietly through gritted teeth, "It's not you. It's...not my real...blood, remember?"

"I know. What I mean is, I'm sorry that you're hurt."

Sherlock's gaze flicks to Molly's face, which is focused intently on his forehead, then flicks to the ceiling, "Oh."

"Falling still hurts, you know."

"Of course," Sherlock answers her, "It seems to be my side and possibly my arm that would need attending to more than my painted temple."

"Right." Molly says, and scrubs through his hair more brusquely. She then helps him to sit up slowly and get off the metal slab.

He steadies himself on the table. Molly looks at him worriedly, then looks around the room, sliding off her rubber gloves. She disposes them in the rubbish bin before turning to Sherlock, "Follow me."


	3. Reviewing

Molly finishes her tea and sets the mug down on the coffee table.

"I'm going to get the autopsy."

Sherlock doesn't say anything. He doesn't even lift his hand to wave. His eyes are closed and she figures that it's best to leave him to his own devices.

Molly doesn't say anything as she leaves her small apartment, but gazes at Sherlock sympathetically as she closes the door.

* * *

><p>"Oh!" Molly exclaims, startled and almost embarrassed by the fact that DI Greg Lestrade is already standing outside the laboratory. Molly scolds herself. She really needs to be more careful. She should have given Sherlock her keys and let him get to the flat by himself. She doesn't want to make up excuses as to why she's only just gotten back to Bart's.<p>

"Don't worry, nobody's touched your equipment or anything." Lestrade says, "I'm just waiting for...you know. The autopsy."

"Yeah. I just came back to get...to get the results. Went out...for a bit. To, erm...God, I don't even know." Molly says quietly, attempting to seem sad.

The DI buys it, looking at her with pity and placing a hand on her shoulder. Thank goodness. Molly feels a small swell of pride – community theatre really paid off. The pride is soon masked by a wave of guilt which really makes her feel wretched. It's so awful manipulating people. How does Sherlock live with himself?

Lestrade's mouth purses into a worried frown, "We can always come and do this another time. Tomorrow, maybe?"

"No." Molly says, "We need to get it done now. I need to get it over with. Who knows," she opens the door to the lab, "maybe it will speed up the process of grieving."

Lestrade nods and follows her into the room.

He looks around a bit, dazed almost. Like he can't believe anything that's going on at the moment. This, Molly can empathize with.

She places her striped bag on a stool and walks over to the printer, stacking the faked reports neatly.

"Why did he do that?" Lestrade asks.

"Sorry?"

"Sherlock. Why did he do that? Jump? Commit suicide? It just...doesn't seem like anything he would do." Lestrade closes his eyes and inhales shakily, "Would have done."

What is he getting all worked up about? Yes, Sherlock is...was a friend. Yes, he had just committed suicide. But people in the police force got killed (or killed themselves) more often than the plebeians would like to think. People could say that Lestrade very much dislikes the arrogant sod – which, a lot of times, he does.

So, why get so distraught?

It's simple, really.

It isn't Sherlock's death that upsets Lestrade, not exactly. It's the fact that Lestrade had doubted the consulting detective and the fact that that doubt had partially led to his suicide. He feels guilty, and he feels betrayed. What if the media is right? What if Lestrade had wasted his time taking advice from a lunatic solving his own made-up puzzles? It's a frightening thought that shakes everything he believes about the detective. And with all of the damning evidence...

"I'm sure he had a good reason." Molly says.

Lestrade looks up at her, "You still believe in him, don't you?"

Molly shrugs and nods, clutching the paperwork to her chest.

Lestrade laughs quietly in slight disbelief, "I'm really...well, not surprised, but yeah. I mean, you should have been the first to doubt him. The press comes out with information that says your ex wasn't a psychopathic mass murderer after all. Though I guess whether the media is true or not, either way you've been manipulated by a freak." Lestrade shakes his head, "Sorry. But, seriously, what's our excuse? The people on the news are liars because we know Sherlock? What if we don't know anything about Sherlock at all? Everything Sherlock does is really unbelievable. And he's such an arse to everyone. Mostly you. So shouldn't it be nice to know that there really is something horribly wrong about the git?"

Molly nods slowly, "Yeah. I guess that should be nice. But then, who could fake being that...amazing and infuriating all the time?"

"Well, if you're really bonkers or a really good actor..."

Molly thumbs through the autopsy report, which contains much of Sherlock's medical history, and feels her chest tighten. It's best to wrap a big lie in truth. Even when the truth hurts. The pathologist was reminded of Sherlock's drug problems. She hadn't forgotten the times she had found him overdosed in his flat, glass and blood and vomit littering the floor. How could she? But the remembrance brought pain and worry that, if he was left alone now, he might start again. She _hadn't_ known about his multiple psychiatric visits, especially when he was younger. She had never fully known how troubled he was. But then, had she ever fully known him?

She thrusts the paperwork at Lestrade's torso.

"Sometimes it's the people who seem the least deserving of faith and mercy that are the most worthy." she whispers, so quietly that she herself can barely hear it.

She doesn't notice that she's shaking until Lestrade grasps her hand and asks if she's okay.

Molly looks up, "I'm fine. Don't you need to bring that to Scotland Yard?"

"Yeah." Lestrade says, letting go of her hand and stepping back, "See you around, Molly."

As the officer exits, Matthew, a colleague from upstairs, enters.

"Molly. There you are. Mrs. Strauss wanted me to tell you that you have a new corpse to attend to. She said you had to step out for a minute. Something up?"

"Matthew, you...you mean you didn't notice? You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Sherlock Holmes is dead."

"Oh. Well, I can say I saw that coming. His name was being slandered everywhere. He had no esteem left. If I were him, I may have done the same."

Molly sighs dejectedly, "Thank you, Matthew."

She pushes past him and into the hallway.

* * *

><p>Once in the morgue, she stops dead in her tracks, a horrible feeling of fear, nausea, and dread drowning her in a cold sweat.<p>

She very cautiously steps toward the autopsy table, irrationally worried that she'll wake the dead man and end the reverie just as it is beginning.

Slowly, without taking her eyes off the cadaver, Molly opens a drawer and pulls on some rubber gloves. She then picks up a scalpel and pokes this new specimen in the cheek.

Breathing slower, a manic relief washing over her, the pathologist almost gleefully begins her dissection of James Moriarty.


	4. Scheming

**Thank you for all the reviews, guys! I'm embarrassed at how long this chapter took me. I've been really busy, since it's the end of the school year: theatre performances, finals, AP tests, preparing for senior year and all that. Anyway, here's the instalment! **

"I need you to help me fake my death."

Molly blinks once, twice. She clenches her hand into a fist and steadies her breathing.

"Why do you do that?" she asks.

"I do like a dramatic flair to my otherwise mundane life."

"No, why do you manipulate me like that?"

Sherlock's eyes widen slightly and he steps back, "I didn't mean to. I was rather hoping you of all people would sense the sincerity in my voice. Because...I was being sincere. You do count."

Molly looks away and inhales. She holds her breath for a moment then exhales loudly. There is a pause as she seems to be considering something.

Sherlock panics briefly. Hadn't he come to the right person? The person he is sure will always help him, no matter what? The person who has complete faith (and awe) in him? The person who loves him for who he is, but too much to leave him that way?

"Do you still want to help me?" he asks, worriedly.

Molly looks up, startled at the inflection of the detective's voice. She's never seen him like this - worried, distraught. It frightens her, how insecure he appears.

Molly nods, "Yes."

Sherlock smiles at her and relaxes considerably.

He mentally shakes his head, the smile leaving his face. Sentiment is transport.

Right now, he needs focus.

* * *

><p>"Tetrodotoxin? Are you sure?"<p>

"Of course I'm sure, Molly." he says. He's pacing now, hands steepled under his chin.

"You know, you could always use potassium cyanide pills. They're easier to make and have lots of reliable antidotes."

"Don't question me, Molly." Sherlock mutters, not looking at her.

He continues with the minute details of his best laid plan of mice and men, but Molly is no longer listening. She's gotten the gist of her part, right? She doesn't need to hear more of this insane scheme. Not that she doubts its efficiency, or the brilliance of the man concocting it. It's just that she's terrified.

Before she can stop herself, she's standing behind the detective and when he turns to begin another tread across the floor, she is in his way. Sherlock stops, his hands jolting apart to avoid hitting Molly in the head.

He stares at her for a moment. She seems completely level headed, as he expects her to be. However nervous she is in his presence normally, he had sensed that she worked well in emergencies and under pressure. Still, there is an off look, as if she's about to be sick but is determined not to show it and to push on like a good soldier.

She throws her arms around his middle, making him step back. Surprised, Sherlock doesn't move at first, but then slowly lets his arms fall around Molly's petite frame. He holds her securely until all of her uncertainties fade and she's ready for battle.

"Be careful." she whispers.

Sherlock looks down at her. He doesn't deserve this. But she definitely deserves this chance to help him and he knows he's made the right decision. "I will." he quietly responds.

He releases her and grips her shoulders, "So." he says, "You know what to do."

Molly opens her mouth to respond, then closes it as her face turns red, "Well, I...wasn't entirely listening towards the end."

Sherlock groans in frustration, turning full circle before grasping Molly's shoulders again and repeating the suicide plan while looking her right in the eyes – fully certain that she'll be able to repeat the plan word for word.

When she has done so – at least for the most part, some of the diction is off – Sherlock releases her shoulders. "Good." he says and nods, "Fine. It's all settled."

Molly nods, "I'll just...I'll go make that...amalgam. And find some blood packets."

Molly heads towards the back of the room, then changes her mind and leaves through the door, opting to get the blood first.

Sherlock's hands fidget for a few seconds, unsure of what to do now that he's finished scheming and made sure everything is in order. _Well, not everything_, he supposes and goes after Molly to the morgue.

"Oh." she says once he's caught up with her, "I see. You don't trust me enough to get a few blood donations?"

"No. I completely trust you. I'm trusting you with my life. But, isn't there that one saying?" Sherlock asks as they step onto the elevator, "Something about doing things yourself."

"If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself."

"Yes. That. However, there would seem to be a bit of a metaphysical conundrum if I were to execute this plan alone. That's why I've recruited your assistance, and I couldn't wish for a better person suited to do this."

"Really?" Molly asks, looking up at him in surprise.

"In this particular scenario, most definitely yes."

Molly considers this statement, unsure whether to take it as a compliment or not. They exit the elevator.

"Thanks?" she says.

Sherlock opens the mortuary door for Molly to pass through. She almost thanks him again, but thinks better of repeating herself.

About an hour later, the tetrodotoxin solution is ready and Sherlock is pacing again. He's being forced to wait all night and probably into tomorrow afternoon until Moriarty begins the end to the final problem.

Molly yawns and brings a hand up to cover her mouth. Sherlock turns to her at the sound, "You can go home now, Molly."

"No." she answers sleepily, "I want to make sure I'm here when Jim is."

"He won't be here until tomorrow. Get some sleep. You'll need it."

Molly looks up at Sherlock, who is once again eroding trenches into the linoleum floor. He looks worried and fretful. He has nothing to do but wait. And Molly has known him long enough – six years, at least – to realise that when he has nothing to do, his brain is like a rocket trapped on the launch pad, tearing itself to bits. Add anxiety to the mix, and that rocket may very well self-destruct. Molly yawns again while reaching into her bag.

"Here." she says.

Sherlock peeks at her through the corner of his eye as he passes, wanting to be distracted but not by anything trivial, and certainly not by any sort of sentimental lecture that he feels Molly might be obligated to give.

"Sherlock."

He continues pacing, stopping when Molly once again blocks his path.

"Calm down," Molly says and smiles at him, "Here."

She holds out a blue bouncy ball.

"What is this for?"

"It's to take your mind off of things."

"Why would I want to take my mind _off _of things?"

"What do you have to think about?"

Sherlock breathes in heavily, "Everything."

Molly places the bouncy ball in his palm and presses his fingers around it gently. She smiles up at him and blinks her weary eyes.

"I'm going home to get some sleep." she says, stifling a yawn, "It wouldn't hurt you to do the same, just this once."

Molly leaves, shifting her striped bag on her shoulder. Sherlock stares down at the gift Molly has given him.

"Thank you." he says quietly to no one in particular.

**Also, wanted to point out for anyone who may have been confused, this story is kind of weird in that the chapters typically go back and forth between 'the present' and 'flashbacks'. (I put them in quotes b/c all of it is in present tense, so **_**technically**_**, every thing's in the present. i'm probably just confusing you more. sorry.)**


	5. Absconding

**So...yeah. Here's a new chapter. I'm working on the next chapter, but a few sections after that are already done, so expect more sooner!**

"I was so alone...and I owe you so much."

John steps back and turns away, as if he's finished, but then rotates fully to face the grave again.

"No, please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be...dead." he inhales heavily and speaks quietly, on the verge of tears, "Would you do that? Just for me? Just stop it, stop this!"

He's finished now and places his head in his hand. He looks up a few seconds later and nods sharply, full of resolve and denial.

Sherlock watches as his best friend treads in a militaristic gait away from the headstone.

He hadn't realized that his plummet would cause so much emotional distress. If he and John had switched places, Sherlock is certain he wouldn't be so emotionally traumatized.

After all, what is the use of whinging about something you can't control?

There isn't even a body buried there, just some scatterings of someone else's ashes.

Sherlock blinks and slowly swivels on his heel. He walks unhurriedly, contemplatively through the cemetery.

He misses John already. Sherlock dearly hopes that his friend will move on. There's a line from a movie John had shown him that said something about being grateful for the time you got with your friends instead of ungrateful for the time you missed.

He also hopes Molly will move on, but fat chance for that now. All he has is Molly.

And his violin and his dressing robe and a small pack of nicotine patches, courtesy of Mycroft.

And it isn't because Mycroft knows, not yet. It's because Mycroft relocated a few of Sherlock's possessions and Sherlock had sent Molly to retrieve them before they were thrown out.

And it's not that he doesn't appreciate Molly or her help. He appreciates her more than his limited emotional ability can express.

_So. _Sherlock thinks, _Now what?_

The answer is fairly obvious: find the rest of Moriarty's gang and dispose of them.

But how to do so?

Where are they? What are they doing? How long until everyone is safe? How long until they get their lives back? How long must his secret be kept? How long until they return to normalcy?

How long will he stay with Molly? He's putting her in danger by staying with her. Serious danger.

He had put hard, tedious work into planning his suicide in order to save his friends. He would never forgive himself, no matter what amount of caring he held for his pathologist, if anything were to happen to her.

Sherlock looks up at the sound of a car.

And locks eyes with John.

But he doesn't move. He watches the car go off down the road, hoping to any deity that will accept him that his best friend thought he had seen a ghost.

He needs to get back to Molly's flat. She must be worried, for reasons such as the instance that had just occurred.

He finds himself slightly bothered as to what her reaction will be. He hopes she doesn't show too much sentiment...She is his rock now, after all.

As he walks back across the field towards the outskirt city buildings, he begins to plot again.

Moriarty. He's gone. Then why does Sherlock feel so angry?

_Let's make a list:_

_ He_ _committed heinous crimes_

_ He evaded the police _

_ He evaded my attention (for a short period of time, but there was no excuse)_

_ He murdered people_

_ He threatened me_

_ He threatened my friends_

_ He insulted me, made me feel inferior_

_ He made me look like a fraud_

_ He compromised me_

_He's gone now. I beat him. There are consequences and other matters that he has left behind, however._

_He's taken my life. And I want it back._

He feels something in the pit of his stomach, rising unbidden and entirely of its own accord – something he had kept at bay for at least twenty three years.

He shakes his head, slightly alarmed at his body's betrayal.

This needs to be dealt with immediately.


	6. Denying

**A/N Very important change to Ch 2, I made Molly not cry. She is not a crybaby. And ****so...sorry i took so long to write this. it's not even a good chapter! anyway, have some poorly written john and i'll get back to you soon, i promise!**

"You didn't come to the funeral."

John sighs.

His hands shake slightly as he turns his cuppa.

"I couldn't."

"I think I understand. I felt the same way about my dad's funeral."

Molly stirs her latte and blows on it before taking a sip.

"You went. How was it?" John asks her, looking up at her for the first time in a while. He looks so tired, worn out, and depressed. It's very disheartening and Molly doesn't particularly want to recount the events of his best friend's funeral, he might break down and she doesn't feel strong enough for that today. But she tells him anyway.

"Well, not many people showed. Mycroft was there. Mrs Hudson was there, of course. Lestrade was there. They were all quite upset and surprised that you _weren't _there. Anderson and Donovan were there, but they were being arses and got kicked out. It was kind of funny. There were, surprisingly, a few people there that Sherlock had helped. Not many. All of his other clients believed the news, apparently. Erm, Sherlock's other brother, Sherringford, was there. I don't think you know him. He's a lot like his mother, apathetic and frightening. And his younger sister, Enola, was there. Did you even know he had a sister? She was very nice and interesting. She looked up to Sherlock a lot. I think she was the only one from his family who shed a tear."

John sighs and puts his head in his hands, "I don't think I've cried this much in my entire life." he whispers.

Molly smiles sadly.

"What about you?" John asks her.

"Honestly, I think this is the _least_ I've cried my entire life."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I don't know, it's kind of like he's still alive. I guess it just hasn't hit me yet that he isn't."

"Sometimes, I feel like he is, too. I mean, he wouldn't do something like commit suicide! It's just not him! Sometimes, I like to think he's still out there somewhere and is going to come back after all the commotion dies down."

Molly coughs on her coffee, "Yeah. I ,erm, I've thought that, too."

"God, we're both in such denial, eh? But it's just a stage, right?"

"Yeah. The grief will wear away eventually. But right now," Molly says, "right now, we'll just have to...keep each other up. Okay? We can be relieved that Sherlock's in a better place. And although that doesn't soften the aches we feel, or, at least, _you_ feel right now, we just have to keep reminding each other of that. I guess it's just going to hurt later for me. You'll be there for me when it hits, right?"

John takes her hand, "Of course."

"I still believe in him. Just because I'm not crying doesn't mean I'm not sad." Molly says, "You won't be mad at me, will you?"

"No. I understand. It's not you I'm mad at, Molly. I don't have the energy to be mad at you, just the doubters. God," John clenches her hand, "There were things he never got to tell us. Things I never got to tell him."

"Well, maybe you can tell him." Molly says, massaging the back of his hand with her thumb reassuringly.

"What do you mean?"

"Why don't you visit his grave? It might be easier to do when no one's around. Maybe he'll see you. From where he is now."

"Good idea." John sniffs, "I think...I think I can. Soon. With no one around. Thank you, Molly."

They stand and John embraces her before leaving the coffee shop, still sad, but slightly more...hopeful.

Molly exhales loudly. God, that was hard. And she's not sure if telling Sherlock all they had said was going to be any easier.


	7. Abusing

**A/N Sorry if Sherlock seems a bit OOC. he explains himself.**

Sherlock comes into Molly's room.

She looks up abruptly from the romantic comedy she's reading.

"You're back!" she says, a little too excited.

Sherlock motions toward her book, "You don't seem to have been concerned."

"I thought you'd left for good." Molly says, "This was to cheer me up."

Sherlock locks the door behind him.

"I have a question for you, Molly."

Her eyes flick down to his hand, resting on the doorknob, then back up to his expression, staring at her expectantly.

"Yes?"

Sherlock walks closer to stand directly beside her bed, where she is sitting cross-legged holding her book in her hands.

"Do you love me?" he asks.

He had seen signs, all of which pointed to that fickle emotion called love. But one could never be too sure. It could be any degree of affection: a crush, lust, pity, care, loyalty, trust, friendship. It never harmed anyone to ask to make absolutely sure. And Sherlock doesn't want to make another mistake in front of his pathologist.

"W-well.." Molly begins, clearly flustered, "Erm...n-not...exactly. I mean, I care about you...a-a lot. You're my friend. Well, I consider you my friend. And I guess you could say I had a crush on you, but not anymore. Well, obviously. Use of past tense...had. Erm, I may have been...jealous when you recognized that woman, erm...Irene, was it? from, well...not her face. But that doesn't mean I love you. I mean, as more than a friend. And that's why I was sort of, you know, jealous. Not because I wanted you to like me, but because I wanted you to like someone worth your while. Not that Irene wasn't worth your while, I just wanted to make su-"

Sherlock's lips end her soliloquy by pressing against her own.

Molly's eyes widen.

What the hell is going on?

Sherlock breaks away as suddenly as he had begun, "Molly," he says quietly, pressing kisses across her jaw and down her neck, "My reputation...has been compromised...in many forms. One of which...was Moriarty's nickname for me...The Virgin." his lips leave her neck and he looks up at her as she gasps slightly, "Calm down. I'm doing this for the both of us." he says, his eyes dilating as he takes hold of her wrist, "I know you want to and I need to be on the same ground as Moriarty."

Molly's protest catches in her throat. He's right, her basic instincts and her long-suffering love for Sherlock do essentially equate to "wanting" him.

But she doesn't want him. Not like this. Not in these circumstances. Not in any circumstances that would occur in the conscious realm of life.

And he doesn't need to be on the same ground as Moriarty. Moriarty's dead. Besides, how does this make them on different ground to begin with? Because Moriarty's experienced something Sherlock hasn't?

Then he's kissing her again, deeper this time, and Molly's thoughts depart.

Sherlock grasps Molly's upper arms, opening his mouth slightly, encouraging Molly to kiss him back.

The diffident woman's eyes flutter closed.

Her book falls with a thud to the floor.

The consulting detective's arms slide down to her waist as he kneels on her bed and leans forward. Molly whimpers as her back hits the comforter. She feels something hard against her thigh. Her eyes fly open as she realizes it's his cock. She squirms in an attempt to get out from under him; he squirms to get closer, his tongue sliding across her lower lip. His hand reaches under her shirt to cup her breast.

"Molly..." Sherlock moans.

He begins grinding himself against her thigh and tightens his grip on her breast, all the sexual urges that had been held at bay since his teens permitted to surface.

He removes his hand from her breast and ghosts his slender fingers down her abdomen. He hooks them through her belt loops and pulls himself closer to her. Molly's hips involuntarily jolt and she whimpers. She knows Sherlock is much bigger than her, but when he is laying on top of her, pressing her into the comforter (against her wishes, no less), she is quite terrified that he will crush her. Sherlock groans and nips her ear, now passionately grinding on her bleed-through wet cunt. Molly lifts her leg up slowly. It seems like she is going to straddle him.

A perfect disguise for her kick which sends him to the edge of her bed.

Sherlock coughs and sits up charily, his trousers bulging in his need to release.

Molly's eyes are wide with fright and arousal.

Sherlock glares at her, expecting her to apologize so he can continue with his ambition. Then he realizes that glaring at a woman doesn't typically turn her on. So his expression softens. He leans forward with anticipation.

But she locks eyes with him and her eyebrows furrow in determination. "Do not!...Don't you dare to try and...d-do...that...to me! In my own home, even!"

"Molly - " he says hoarsely.

"No! I am not some...tramp you can just...How could you?"

"I'm sorry."

"You're not. You don't understand. This isn't just...something you do."

Sherlock tilts his head to the side.

"What isn't just something you do?"

"Have...sex." Molly says, looking towards her dresser mirror.

Sherlock clears his throat, "Really?" he asks with a true look of bewilderment on his face.

"Yes." Molly replies looking back at him, "Really."

"But, John and...everyone. They all..."

"Just because they all do it so...casually, doesn't mean it's right!" Molly exclaims, "I mean, sex isn't just a thing to be...carelessly...used and thrown away! It's giving your whole...self, your whole being, to another person. And I-I'm not judging them, John and...everyone. I'm just saying that sex is something I...cherish."

"You're something that I cherish."

"What? Hold on, why?"

"Because you count." he answers.

"Don't start that with me."

"It's true." he says, shifting forward, "And...you want this, don't you? I know the signs of arousal."

Molly cringes because she can't move back. The headboard of her bed is the limit, it seems.

"I-I'm sorry, Sherlock." she stutters, "I decided a long time ago to save it for my spouse."

Sherlock blinks and tilts his head, "You're getting married?"

"Someday, hopefully." Molly answers with a slight blush.

"But, Molly, be reasonable. What if the person you love threatens to leave you?"

"I'll let him."

"What if he doesn't want to get married?"

"He can find someone else."

"What if he doesn't love you back?"

Sherlock and Molly lock eyes and she takes a small, shuddering breath.

"Then it shouldn't be a problem."

Sherlock frowns at her, willing her to be "rational" in a Molly sense. To be lenient, if only for him.

But this is something she will not back down on. She is not going to be used like someone's skeleton key anymore.

Molly swallows hard under Sherlock's icy gaze.

"I've made my decision." her eyes narrow and she continues, quiet but fierce, "And if you can't respect that, I won't have anything to do with you."

Sherlock looks Molly up and down for a moment, perplexed that she would say all of this. Hadn't she had sex before? No, he observes, she actually hasn't. But she went out with Moriarty for...

Three dates.

Wasn't that one of John's rules? The three-date rule? And she had ended it. What if it had ended this way?

But surely she's had sex some other time, with some other boyfriend. No, he observes, she hasn't.

But everyone has sex!

Except for him.

And except for Molly.

Suddenly, she's brushing past him to the living room. He gazes after her with one of those looks, puzzled, but just starting to see sense.

Sherlock tentatively gets up from the bed and goes into the bathroom.

He releases himself as cleanly as he can, feeling immensely relieved and, at the same time, bloody appalled.

**A/N...I can't believe I just wrote that. I'm going to take a nice, long shower now.**


	8. Forgiving

**A/N I meant to post this the same day as the last chapter. But then we went on a trip to the Rockies. Here you go, lovely readers! (don't forget the lonely reply button.)**

Molly is sitting on the couch, her knees raised up to her chin, her arms wrapped around them tightly. Toby comes and mews beside her. She smiles slightly and pets his soft fur. He doesn't understand. He's so innocent.

"I'm so sorry, Molly."

She looks up, startled, though she knows she shouldn't be. Sherlock does have a tendency to appear out of nowhere. He's standing next to the couch, but not looking at her. He's looking at the floor, but not observing it. He is within his own mind, searching for the right words to make himself up to his friend.

"You are...one of the few. And I will respect you for that." he says finally, "And I've decided to be one of the few as well. It's just another thing that makes me and Moriarty...not the same."

He looks at her, his face composed, with an air of resignation, illuminated by the soft orange glow of the table lamp. Molly smiles shyly at him.

"Well, good. I certainly wouldn't want you to be any more like Moriarty."

Sherlock smiles, and chuckles even, at her weak joke.

Molly frowns again and looks towards the wall opposite.

"I'm sorry." she whispers.

"No." Sherlock cuts her off angrily, "Don't say that. You have no reason whatsoever to be sorry. _I'm_ sorry."

"Yes, I know, you've already – "

"No, Molly." he says, exasperated, moving to crouch in front of her.

"I'm sorry. For frightening you and losing your respect." he says as she shies away, "For practically...raping you. For disrespecting you, for being such a dick to you all the time, every time. For putting you down, for making you feel like you don't count." There is a pause as Sherlock takes a breath and looks down, realizing what he's just said, "No." he whispers, "I'm not sorry. Why did I say that?"

"I...don't know, Sherlock. I...erm..."

He looks up at her sharply, "That's not what I meant!"

Molly eyes him, frightened but reassuring, "Then say what you mean."

Sherlock takes a breath then takes her hand. She tries to pull away and Sherlock lessens his grasp but doesn't move his hand. Reconciled, neither does she.

Sherlock looks down at their hands, "Molly. I'm sorry for treating you so horribly. But you must understand; there is always a method to my madness. I've been waiting for you to...break. To realize that you're putting your trust in the wrong man. Honestly, though your loyalty was key in the final problem, I was hoping you would doubt me. You deserve better than me, Molly. But I always lead you on. After all the rude things I point out, I always have to do or say something that makes you forgive me because I need you. I'm nothing but a selfish bastard."

Molly stares at him, mouth ajar, speechless. Completely overwhelmed by his confession. But, he could be slightly delusional. Having to stay hidden from the world in one's friendly neighbourhood pathologist's house can make one quite...strange. And can make a strange one even stranger than strange. Sherlock removes his hand from hers but does not stir otherwise and Molly realizes he's waiting for a reply.

"I...Sherlock, I..." she starts. He looks at her expectantly. "I forgive you."

Sherlock looks up at her through ashamed eyes but says nothing.

Molly sighs, "Here." she gets up, "Here's your bed back."

Sherlock stands as she moves away.

"I'm going to sleep." she says and exits down the hall.

Sherlock sits on the couch. It's still warm. He glances toward the hallway, knowing that if he slept that night, he would sleep peacefully.


	9. Nurturing

**A/N Thank you for all the reviews! They're so motivational.**

After work, Molly goes to visit John.

She knocks on the door to 221B. Mrs Hudson answers it with a melancholy smile.

"Hello, dear. I don't think John's up for seeing visitors today." she says, "But you can stay for a while and make sure."

The motherly landlady ushers the younger woman in. She closes the door and pulls out a mobile. "I'm still not used to using this, but John told me to only text him. He doesn't want to talk."

Mrs Hudson glances up the stairs before returning to figuring out her phone.

"Would you like me to do it?" Molly asks.

"Oh, thank you, dear." Mrs Hudson answers, handing her the phone. She looks up the stairs again as Molly types, "I'm so worried for him. He doesn't seem to be doing well at all. It's a good thing he has friends like you, Miss Hooper."

Molly sends the text, notifying John of her presence, then follows Mrs Hudson into the little kitchen.

"How are you coming along, dear?" Mrs Hudson asks as Molly sits across from her at the small table.

"Oh, fine. For the most part. The whole...erm...situation has been hard."

"Don't I know it." Mrs Hudson replies, shaking her head. Molly bites her lip and looks down, ashamed.

Mrs Hudson interprets it as Molly telling her that she _doesn't_ know. The landlady takes her hand in hers.

"I'm sorry, Molly." she says, squeezing the younger woman's hand affectionately, "It's not the same for any of us, so how can we know how the others feel? You must have been hit harder than me."

"Mrs Hudson, of course I wasn't – "

"Now, dear, don't think I didn't notice the way you looked at him. You really loved him. And you didn't even know. If only I could have gotten him to tell you. I feel like there would have been more closure. That's what you need, isn't it?"

"Wait, gotten him to tell me what?" Molly asks extracting her hand from the elderly woman's.

Suddenly, there's a loud bang from upstairs. Molly gets up from her chair.

"Don't worry. It's just John. He probably threw something at the wall," Mrs Hudson's eyes are sad, "He's gotten very angry. I think he blames me."

"Blames you? For what?" Molly asks.

"For Sherlock's death. And I can't help but think he's right, even though I know it's just a phase."

Molly gawks at Mrs Hudson, "How could you think that? Of course it's not your fault! If anything, it's his own fault!"

"Miss Hooper, I'm surprised at you! He couldn't have done anything about his respect and dignity being thrown about! He was so strange and misunderstood; people would believe anything about him. He didn't show much emotion, but in the end he had more sentimental capacity than all of us put together. The signs of suicide should have been transparent, and we didn't see any. And when all of the pressure and slander finally got through to him unaware, his pride was shattered and it was more than he could handle. He didn't want to die, but there wasn't anything else that he could think of to do. We could have given him options. We could have told him what he had to live for."

By now Mrs Hudson's voice cracks and she weeps. Molly is taken aback, she hadn't meant to make her elder upset; quite the opposite actually. But the words of comfort had been the wrong words to use. _Who called me certified to do this job?_

"I'm sorry." Mrs Hudson says, her voice thick with tears, "I didn't mean to get mad at you. It's just, I wish that I could have done something."

"We all do. But we can't put the blame on any one person. I like to think the doubters were guilty. And you and John and me: we aren't the doubters." Molly's throat is tight as she says this and she hugs her chest, "It's not our fault. It's not his fault. And there's nothing to be done about it now. He wouldn't blame you, you know. We didn't expect him to commit suicide, and we would have misinterpreted any suicidal tendencies as one of his moods. He loved you and John and Lestrade. There's no greater love than to lay down one's life for one's friends, right? And that's what he did. Whenever he went on a life threatening case, he did it to protect you. He wouldn't want to hurt you by making his death your fault." Molly swallows over the lump in her throat, "I'll see you again soon, yeah?"

Mrs Hudson gets up and opens the door for Molly, "Goodbye, dear. Thank you for the chat."

Molly smiles at her and walks cheerlessly down the road. _He didn't do it for me._ she thinks, _He doesn't care about me. _

As if in answer to her misconception, Mrs Hudson says quietly from the steps, "He loved you, you know. He really did."


	10. Lying

She's getting ready to leave for work. Her hand is resting on the doorknob. Toby makes a figure eight around her legs and she bends down to pet him.

Her knees begin to give and she slumps to the ground clutching Toby to her, to which the cat responds negatively by scratching her arm and rushing off. Molly pays no attention to the incident (it had happened before) and places her head in her hands.

"Molly?"

Sherlock stares at her from roughly six feet above, unable to rationalise what has just happened. He wonders what he should do. Deduce, he supposes, and proceeds to analyse.

"You're upset." he says and kneels down next to her. He observes what he believes to be a slight nod and is about to get up when he realises Molly isn't planning on doing the same.

"Oh, wait. Do you want to talk about what's upsetting you?"

"I can't do it." she whimpers.

"What? Go to work? Of course you can, you do it every day." Sherlock says drily.

"No. You wouldn't understand."

"Molly, calm down. What are you talking about?"

"Lying. All of this, my whole existence with you, has been a big lie. I lied to myself constantly about how you felt... towards me. I lied to myself about Ji – M-Moriarty. He lied to me."

"He lied to everyone." Sherlock whispers, looking at the floor angrily.

"And now I have to lie for you. And you don't understand how hard it is. Knowing you can end someone's pain by telling them a secret. Knowing that you can't tell because it puts everyone in danger."

"You can do it, Molly. I know you can. Why would I have chosen you to help me if I didn't think you were capable of doing so?"

Molly looks up at him, "Did you really mean it?"

"Mean what?"

"When you said that I counted. Did you mean it?"

"Of course."

Molly shakes her head and sighs quietly. "No, you didn't. You just said it to get me to assist you. Like always."

"Well, I suppose that's one way of looking at it. But most of the things I do are for personal gain." Sherlock pets Toby as the cat rubs against his legs, "However, yes, I did mean it, and not just in the sense that you counted because you were the key in keeping me alive."

"I was the key? The only person you could have gone to? What if someone else could have helped you?"

"No one else could have."

"I know, but theoretically."

His eyes lock on hers, "I still would have come to you."

"Why?"

Sherlock smirks, "That wasn't a very long line of questioning. It does flatter me when people take my word as gospel. Especially when my word is being so blatantly threatened. You watch the news, yes? And read the paper?"

Molly nods.

"And you didn't believe a word of it. You never doubted me, even when the newscasts told you otherwise: with an exceptionally intricate and realistic article. Most of which was true."

"What?" Molly asks, incredulously.

Sherlock nods, "Most of what they said is true, except for the most vital part: that I am a fraud. The reason I chose you to help me was because I knew you didn't believe the lies Moriarty, and the whole of England, it seemed, was telling about me."

"Of course I didn't. I couldn't possibly. And I still don't."

"Exactly. Don't doubt yourself." Sherlock says, pointing at her for emphasis. He shakes his head, "What is wrong with you, Molly Hooper?"

She sighs and looks up, "I'm gullible and completely enamoured by you."

The small smile that had played on Sherlock's lips disappears and he stands.

"You need to go to work."


	11. Adopting

**A/N Erm...I was going to wait to post this after someone commented on the last chapter. Ya'll took too long.**

**Anyway, here you go.**

John is walking down the street to his new apartment on Essex Road. He's been living there for two weeks now and has only just set up his bed.

He had stopped seeing his therapist; which seemed fine at first, she annoyed him; but she was certified and her methods did seem to work. However, as she kept reminding him, grief is not abnormal. Everything he's going through is completely natural and there's nothing for her to 'fix'. So, John reasons, why continue going?

He's quite tired: he's been getting texts, e-mails, phone calls, and actual hand written letters from many people claiming to be clients and is Sherlock Holmes around? He also gets mail from haters, which are the hardest for him to read, mainly because they cause him to lose his temper, which requires energy; and there is only a slight bit of reprieve that comes from letters of fans, who still believe in his deceased friend.

But it's little redemption, as there is far more grief from other sources. Mrs Hudson was very upset when John decided to move out. He feels bad about leaving her all alone, but he can't bear staying at Baker Street and he knows his anger had only made things worse. He's angry at so many people: Mrs Hudson, Molly. _Well, I guess that's not that many_. _But they're some of the few people I have left; it feels as though I'm mad at the world._ He knows he promised he wouldn't be mad, explicitly made that promise to Molly, but he can't help it. Mrs Hudson's motherliness and attention towards him makes him feel like she's not paying any attention to Sherlock. After everything he did for her! And Molly's apathy makes him feel weak. She _loved _Sherlock, for Christ's sake! Shouldn't he be the one consoling her?

Maybe someday, he'll have the strength to return. Return to Molly's good graces. Return to Mrs Hudson's lodgings. But not today.

He figures that if he has some time to himself, to let off some of the steam, it'll lessen the grief. Something makes him hope that if he stops being mad at his friends, then he can interact with them again and maybe, just maybe, they could fill the void caused by Sherlock's absence.

The doctor hears a shout from across the street. He turns his concentration towards it. There's Lestrade, ordering about his dim-witted lackeys.

_If Sherlock were here_, John can't help but think, _he'd be doing a much faster job._

He had heard about the current case in the papers, something about a Sir John Hardy. Sherlock would have called it a five, at most. The police are so stupid.

John shakes his head. Now he's getting mad at Lestrade. That won't help the situation any.

He turns back to stare at his feet as he wearily makes his way home.

But he can't call it home. It's not home. Home is where the heart is, and there is no heart in the bare flat.

_Maybe I should get a dog, _John thinks, and smirks despondently. He shakes his head, then stops in his tracks. His eyes widen.

_Actually, that's not a bad idea._

* * *

><p>John wakes up rather early the next morning due to a frightening dream. He gets out of bed and shivers as his feet hit the cold floor.<p>

Checking his reflection in the mirror, he's feeling much worse than he looks. The circles under his eyes don't seem dark enough; the wrinkles on his forehead don't seem numerous enough. He sighs and takes a quick, freezing shower before heading off to work. He has another job – still a doctor, of course. Still at St. Bart's. He never goes down to the morgue, though, and makes absolutely certain that he doesn't eat lunch the same time as his pathologist friend.

After work, John decides to actually come through on one of his promises and buy himself a dog.

He enters the pet store feeling out of place. If anyone knew the reason behind the endorsement, he's sure they would laugh. People don't buy pets because they're lonely unless they're an old cat lady. And John is neither a lady nor is he buying a cat.

He saunters over to the dog section, scanning the young puppies and the old hounds.

"I'd probably pick that one." says a woman to his right, pointing at a tiny Dachshund, "But then, I wouldn't know. I'm here to adopt a cat."

John turns to her, recognizing her voice (and her lovely appearance) as a nurse in his department.

"You're Dr Watson, right?" she asks.

John extends his hand, "Call me John."

The woman takes it, "Mary."

"So," John says, "You like cats?"

"Yeah." Mary answers, "I had one when I was a kid. Calico. I named him Spots."

"I never had pets as a kid. My sister's allergic."

"That's a pity. So is this your first time getting a pet?"

John nods.

"Any particular reason?"

John turns away and clenches his jaw. He can't answer that! A dog to replace a person? A dog to replace Sherlock Holmes? What was he thinking? He should give her a curt, 'Now that you mention it, no.' and leave and never set foot in the pet store again. But he doesn't want to lie to her. And he made a promise.

"I'm sorry I asked." Mary says suddenly. John looks at her, surprised.

"But I'm sure it can't be any more embarrassing than my reason. I just broke up with my boyfriend – he was cheating on me and the woman he was seeing lived a floor above me and I just had to get away from it all. I've never been completely on my own before and I figure a pet will make me less...alone."

Mary sighs, then chuckles, "I shouldn't have told you that; it sounded like I was hitting on you. And you're probably married, aren't you?"

"I'm not." John says quickly, "I am entirely unattached. From everyone." he gets quieter, "Including my best friend. And that's why I'm buying a dog."

"Sounds like we're in the same boat." Mary responds, smiling sadly.

John nods, looking back into the puppy pen.

And there he is.

A little bull dog, just sitting there, looking curious but awfully sombre, as if he had understood their conversation. John knows that he's the one.

* * *

><p>"What are you going to name him?" Mary asks as they leave the shop, carrying a new friend with her named Stripes.<p>

"I don't know yet. You'll have to ask me later. Maybe over lunch."

"Are you asking me out?"

John shrugs, "Yeah. Sure."

Mary smiles, "Sounds fun. I'll see you round!"

John watches his new female acquaintance walk off down the road.

Things are starting to look up.

**A/N Chapter 10 feels neglected and this Chapter would not like to feel the same! Please review (both if you would)!**

**Also, I just thought of something. I was reading the stories referenced by the series 3 clues, and I thought, 'Hey, wouldn't it be cool if they made Martha's role in **_**His Last Bow **_**Molly's role?' Yeah. That'd be pretty cool.**


	12. Performing

**A/N - Gah! Writer's block! Sorry!**

**I've realised something. You know how people put song lyrics into their stories? That really annoys me. But I've come upon a situation where I have done just that. And as a penance for my now hypocritical views, I would like to inform you that if the lyrics get on your nerves, LISTEN TO THE SONG. That's the reason the author wrote it in. Also, lots of internet bear hugs to my wonderfully fantastical reviewers (and favers and followers)! I love you guys! Keep calm and read on!**

Molly halfheartedly closes the door behind herself. She's just gotten back from consoling Mrs Hudson about John's plan to move. She drops her bag on the floor and pauses, collecting herself. She scans the room, looking for anything to occupy her thoughts. Her eyes light on the piano and she smiles.

She heads over and plunks out a chord or two, then a few notes, then plays a solfegietto to warm up her fingers. She pulls some sheet music from the crate to her right and begins to play the theme of 'Downton Abbey'. She becomes entranced and performs it masterfully, although there are a few arpeggio jumps in the left hand she hasn't quite perfected and there's a tricky bit in the right hand near the end. Molly lingers on the last chord and closes her eyes, feeling her stress dissipate.

A triad of claps comes from behind her. Molly gasps and swivels to see Sherlock leaning against the arm of the sofa.

"Sherlock! I...erm...I didn't...I mean, I..."

"Forgot I was here?" Sherlock finishes for her with a smirk.

"No, I just...thought you were out."

"Now, Molly," Sherlock says with a serious intonation, "We both know I can't go out without placing people in jeopardy."

"Oh. So you don't have some sort of disguise you tramp around in?" Molly enquires, "We also both know that you wouldn't be able to stay around here all the time for, how long has it been? an entire month."

"I don't just sit around while you're out, that's certain."

"What do you do, then?" Molly asks.

Sherlock sighs, "I will admit, I do go out sometimes. But only for a little while. For research."

Molly frowns at him and is about to respond when her flatmate cuts her off, "That was a beautiful song you were playing. What was the title?" he asks, innocently changing the subject.

Molly blushes, "It was the theme from a show called Downton Abbey. You wouldn't like it. The show, I mean."

"Probably not." Sherlock replies. He is now crouched over Molly's crate of music, flipping through books and papers. He chooses one and sets it up on the music stand, pointing to the lyrics, "Here. You can sing to this one."

"Oh, no, I don't - "

Sherlock pouts at her.

Molly bites her lip and places trembling fingers on the keys. She takes a deep breath. This is a simple song; she knows it backwards and forwards. It begins:

I'll be your candle on the water.

My love for you will always burn

I know you're lost and drifting,

but the clouds are lifting.

Don't give up, you have somewhere to turn.

I'll be your candle on the water

'til every wave is warm and bright.

My soul is there beside you;

let this candle guide you.

Soon you'll see a golden stream of light.

In the midst of the bridge, Sherlock picks up his violin and creates a harmony. Molly hardly registers it, it fits so nicely.

A cold and friendless tide has found you;

Don't let the stormy darkness pull you down.

I'll paint a ray of hope around you,

circling in the air, lighted by a prayer.

I'll be your candle on the water.

This flame inside of me will grow.

Keep holding on, you'll make it.

Here's my hand, so take it.

Look for me reaching out to show,

as sure as rivers flow,

I'll never let you go. (x3)

The song finishes with a soft flair and Molly's weary frame pulsates with tension. While her unobserved performance had relaxed her, the audience brought stagefright. Sherlock taps his bow on his shoulder pensively, "That was..." he sees Molly wring her hands nervously in his peripheral vision, "A profound song." he finishes.

Molly smiles to herself.

"You played it very well."

Molly gazes at the black and white piano keys, "So did you."

Sherlock pokes her with his bow, "You could probably say 'thank you'."

Hearing the smile in his voice, Molly laughs, "Thanks."

Sherlock places his violin and bow on the sofa and proceeds to release Molly's hair from its hairband.

"W-what are you doing?" Molly stutters.

"You seem stressed," Sherlock explains, carefully pulling out the end of the ponytail, "This should relieve the tension."

_It would_, Molly thinks, _if _I'd_ taken my hair down. I don't think I can get any tenser._

The consulting detective slowly cards his fingers through Molly's hair, getting rid of any knots...and enjoying the sensation. He had classified her hair as brown before, but now that he's up close, it's obvious that it has a red tint - what most people would consider auburn. Sherlock takes a strand and straightens it between his fingers, like a stylist getting it straight for a cut. Molly had always liked the feeling of people playing with her hair, and although her flatmate is standing directly behind her at least two feet above her and is Sherlock bloody Holmes, Molly can't help but feel a little relaxed.

Sherlock runs his fingers through a few more times, then stops abruptly, crosses his arms and says, "There. Feeling better?"

Molly looks at him, smiling shyly, "Yeah."

Sherlock turns as Toby jumps onto the sofa - nearly stepping on the musician's violin. Sherlock snatches it away from the cat and puts the instrument in its case. He shoos the feline away and sits down. He steeples his fingers and leans his head back.

"So," Molly speaks before Sherlock can enter his mind palace, "I'll probably be getting my pink slip within the month."

Sherlock frowns at her in confusion.

"Don't look so surprised." she tells him.

"I'm not." Sherlock responds, "It's just that, if I ever come back - "

"_When _you come back." Molly corrects him.

Sherlock nods tentatively, "When I come back, I won't be able to access Bart's facilities. Or certainly not as easily."

Molly's eyes widen.

"Of course." she scoffs, "It's always about you. And it is! I mean, you do realize it's your fault?" Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but Molly shakes her head and continues, "God forbid you'd have to face the consequences as much as everyone else. God forbid you'd have to fill out paperwork and ask permission."

Sherlock blinks a few times, unsure of what to say. He can't help but be annoyed at Molly for suddenly being so angry at him. He had been trying, _really_ trying, to be kinder to her. He doesn't think he's said more apologies to anyone his entire life. Yes, she presumably still holds grudges. Yes, she is very stressed and upset. Yes, he still has lots of work to do. But, he can't bring himself to apologize _again. _

He says, "It will be very different when you're not there. You're very good at your job and whoever they get to replace you will be entirely incompetent."

He watches closely as Molly's eyes begin to water. He reaches out and takes her hand, to comfort her before she hugs him. She sniffs and rubs at her eyes. They stay like that for a while, and Sherlock finds himself massaging the back of her hand with his thumb.

He gently removes his hand from hers and asks quietly, "What are you going to do?"

Molly sniffs again, blushing slightly, "Oh. Well, Greg told me - " she stops on seeing Sherlock's baffled expression, "Greg. Lestrade. DI Lestrade."

"I know who he is." Sherlock retorts. _Since when are you on a first-name basis?_

Molly nods, "Well, he recommended a forensics lab in southern London. He says the pay is good and the staff is nice. But, speaking of Lestrade, why hasn't he lost his job? Not that I want him to, of course. That would be dreadful."

"How do you think Lestrade kept his job? You've met my brother. I doubt you deduced what he does for a living." Molly shakes her head. "He's the British government, essentially. And, to say the least, he...gets around."

"Why would he let Lestrade keep his job if he...let everything else happen? If he didn't help me? If he didn't help you?"

Sherlock stays silent, but eyes Molly with 'The Look'. "...Sibling rivalry?" she says, "Hm. My brothers can be like that, too."

Sherlock closes his eyes and exhales deeply, "My brother gave away my whole life story to get false information from Moriarty. In a sense, you could say that Mycroft killed me. Until you can wrap your head around that, you don't really understand sibling rivalry."

"Sherlock, I'm sure he's very sorry about it now."

Sherlock scoffs, "What would ever give you that idea?"

"Maybe, since he let Lestrade, quite conspicuously, stay on the police force, maybe Mycroft was avenging himself. For...killing you. But then I guess that can't be the case. Because, then, why wouldn't Mycroft help me with _my_ job?"

Sherlock shrugs, "Maybe he thought you'd do better in a more legally focused environment."

Molly looks angry again, "Mycroft doesn't control my life! I was good at my job! Why would he let that happen? I mean, I understand I'm not as valuable as Lestrade is in his job, especially now that you're...dead...but...I liked my job..."

Too tired to carry on, she stops. Sherlock feels...something. Regret? Guilt? Sadness? He isn't sure. He can't bring himself to tell Molly that Mycroft probably hadn't even noticed: hadn't noticed her in general, hadn't noticed she'd been fired, and hadn't noticed her worth. His older brother couldn't care less about average, wallflower Molly.

Sherlock himself was another story. He noticed Molly, he even noticed her value as being unnoticed. So very inconspicuous. But he would have to confront Mycroft on this. He had liked Molly's job, too. She was always there when he needed her. Always in the morgue or the lab when he came around. Sometimes in a spot so that, whenever he looked up from the microscope, he could watch her scrunch her nose in annoyance or mess with her lovely hair...

Sherlock blinks. He had _not _been thinking that.

He gets up and goes to the kitchen to fiddle with the chemicals Molly was good enough - or rather, too good - to bring home.

* * *

><p>Later, Molly is checking her e-mails when she comes across a highly unusual one.<p>

"Sherlock?" Molly calls from the couch.

"Hm?" Sherlock comes in from the kitchen, wearing safety goggles.

"I think...I think this e-mail is for you." Molly tells him quietly, pointing at her computer screen.

_Subject: Bias, From: Anonymous_

_I used to be his favourite. But he became preoccupied with you._

_That's okay now. I've taken his place._

_You'd best stay clear of the web._

**A/N I've been thinking about that bouncy ball...you know what I think really happened? Sherlock jumped off the roof into the laundry lorry and had the bouncy ball under his armpit to stop circulation. Or something involving that at least. He probably took some sort of shot to appear dead, too. Yeah, idk. Either way, it's not the case in this story, so you know, whatevs.**

**Also, I imagine Molly sounds like Kate Nash when she sings.**

**And Ben and Loo need to start dating!**

**Also, this chapter is really long. These author's notes are really long. Erm….sorry.**


	13. Grieving

**A/N - Writer's block again. And reading. And life. Sorry about the misinterpretation of the Cumberlord! Although, if I made you angry, the review button didn't seem to notice: I do believe Chapter 12 is my most reviewed chapter! I hope you're still happy from the fluff in the last chapter because this section involves depressions of Johns.**

John isn't sure what to do with Gladstone. He had known from the start that he wouldn't keep the dog. He can't possibly, especially now that he is going to...well.

He shakes his head and takes the ball from the puppy's mouth, throwing it across the room. Gladstone runs to get it, his stubby legs sliding everywhere.

John turns lethargically to look at the clock. Hm. He needs to go to the hospital.

Gladstone brings the ball back to his master, panting happily. John picks it up and walks to his puppy's kennel, dropping the ball inside. Gladstone happily goes to retrieve it and John shuts the door.

At work, John can't seem to focus. He hears his patients, but honestly their problems don't seem very pressing. How can they complain about their twisted ankles, upset stomachs, or aching backs when they don't matter? Can't they see that nothing matters?

He's a terrible doctor, these people shouldn't be coming to him when he's just as sick. He seems to have contracted the world's largest migraine...

He rubs his temple as his patient finishes explaining her symptoms.

"What do you suggest, Dr Watson?" the woman asks.

John blinks a few times and taps his pen against the desk. _Suggest for what? For the illness you've described? Since you're asking me, I must admit I don't know. I'm sure if I were a good doctor, I'd be able to tell you right away._

John clears his throat, very worried at his sudden lack of medical knowledge. "To put it bluntly," he says, tapping his pen faster, "I'm not really sure what the symptoms imply. There are multiple diagnoses. Come back next week and we'll discuss it further."

His patient looks surprised. She had suspected nothing but a heightened version of the flu.

However, she accepts the explanation and leaves.

John stops his incessant tapping, throws his pen on the desk, and runs his fingers through his short blonde hair.

There is a knock on his door.

"Come in." he calls.

"Hey." Mary says, popping her head in, "Just thought I'd drop in when you weren't busy. Have you seen _Skyfall_ yet? I was going to bring a friend, but she bailed out."

John places his head in his hands, "I really don't feel up to it."

Mary frowns and enters the doctor's office, closing the door quietly, "You okay?"

John sighs, "Yeah." he puts his hands down and looks at Mary, "I'm just tired. And I've got an awful headache."

"Did you take anything for it?"

John nods.

Mary places her hand on his forehead. "You feel really warm, John. And you know you've only seen two patients today? Maybe you ought to go home."

"No. I can't, Mary. I'm never here as it is. Or I wasn't ever here, I guess, when I worked here part time. Ask Sarah Sawyer. I can't afford a sick day."

"I'll explain everything, don't worry." Mary says, smiling sympathetically, "Let me take you home."

A few minutes later, Mary is driving John back to Essex Road.

"Left here." John says, and she obliges.

There's a traffic light ahead that, of course, turns red just when they get to it. Mary frowns grumpily. She sighs and looks out the window. "Tell me when we can go, okay?" she asks John over her shoulder.

"Okay." he answers.

Mary smiles to herself. She closes her eyes and hums along with the radio. She always plays the trust game with new boyfriends. Well, she and John have been on five dates, so she supposes he isn't _that_ new. But she hasn't played it with him yet, and this certainly seems like a good opportunity.

"Go." she hears John say. So she does and doesn't bother to step on the brakes until she hears the loud honk. She screams and stops just before a delivery truck passes in front of her.

Breathing shakily, she now keeps her eyes on the road, "What the hell, John!" she says with shocked anger, "You could have gotten us killed!"

It's silent for a moment.

"Sorry."

They finally make it to John's flat. Gladstone barks happily at his owner's quick return.

"So." Mary says, "Call me if you change your mind about the movie. Otherwise, I guess I'll just ask Molly again."

John smiles tensely at her and closes the door.

* * *

><p>It's 4:00 in the morning when Mary hears a knock on her door. She gets up and answers it groggily.<p>

She rubs her eyes and addresses whom she assumes is the homeless man that frequents her block, "What do you want, Lionel? Can't you wait until - " She cuts herself off as she opens her eyes, "John?"

He stands there in the chilly London night in pyjama pants and a ratty t-shirt. Gladstone sits patiently next to him on a lead.

"I hate to wake you at such an awful time, but I was wondering if you could look after Gladstone for a few days."

Mary blinks and rubs her eyes again, "Couldn't you have waited 'til morning?"

John is silent for a moment.

"Where are you going? It's obviously not as urgent as you're making it seem, seeing as you're in your pyjamas."

"Well, where I'm going pyjamas are acceptable attire."

"For multiple days? You don't have a change of clothes."

John stiffens and shoves the lead into Mary's hands.

"Wha-? John, what's going on?" Mary reaches out and grabs his wrist. John gasps in pain. Mary's eyes widen as she feels a thick liquid seep onto her hand. She turns his arm carefully so she can fully see the damage he's done. Precise horizontal cuts lead from his wrist to his elbow.

"John..." she whispers.

"Let go of my arm, Mary." John says, far too calmly considering the situation, "I need to go to Bart's."

"Agreed," Mary responds, her voice hoarse, "This needs to be looked at as soon as possible."

John turns to her, his eyes unfathomably sad, "That's not why I'm going there."

He pulls his arm from her grasp and quickly limps away.

"John!" Mary calls after him, tears beginning to fall along with the rain. She lets go of Gladstone's lead and runs to catch up with her boyfriend. How hadn't she seen this coming? Some girlfriend she was! It's a good thing she hadn't taken Meena's advice to dump him. _Although_, she thinks with a pang in her chest, _would it really have changed the outcome? _Gladstone reaches his owner before Mary and frantically digs his teeth into John's pyjama pants. John kicks the bulldog away and hails a taxi.

The door closes just as Mary reaches it and it takes everything in her to keep from outright screaming. She hurriedly gathers Gladstone in her arms and climbs into the next taxi.

She throws the door to Bart's roof open, making it slam against the wall. John doesn't even flinch.

"Get away from the ledge, John Watson!" she shouts, "You're ill! That's all! Just dreadfully ill!"

She rushes over to him and pulls him away from disaster, clutching him like their lives depend on it. Which, in a sense, they do. John doesn't respond for a while, like he's under some sort of trance. But he doesn't resist either.

"Didn't you even think of your friends? Your family?" Mary cries.

"I'm estranged from both, so why would it matter?" John's voice is quiet and angry.

"You're not estranged from me." Mary says gently, trying to sooth his pain, "And I've known too many people who've gone this way. Life will get better, I promise. It has for me: I met you." Mary gulps around the lump in her throat. She knows about Sherlock Holmes and his death. John had told her all about it on their first date. And she in turn had told him all about Ernest. They had used each other as support which, as both had been warned by their therapists, was very unhealthy. But Mary knows there's something there, something other than a shoulder to cry on. After all, John hadn't applied the three date rule.

Mary is brought out of her thoughts as John shivers. They had both become numb to the freezing rain. "Let's go inside."

John pulls away slightly, his eyes red and wet. He cups Mary's chin in his hand.

"Thank you." he says.

"Oh, John. You're such a-"

Before she can finish, John's lips are pressed against hers. Mary is slightly taken aback; this is the first time he's kissed her (Aside from on the cheek and one chaste peck on the mouth. But this is entirely different).She feels sorrow and longing and gratefulness and, dare she say it, love in his gesture. She closes her eyes and kisses him back. It's not exactly bliss, the circumstances are too harrowing. John breaks the kiss and Mary begins, "John, don't-" and then he kisses her again before she can go on. He tilts his head and the taste of rain combines with the taste of Mary's lips, causing a bittersweet sensation. She sighs and threads her hands through his hair, kissing him with everything she has because he needs it and he deserves it. She's never loved anyone as much as him. After what seems like an eternity, John tenderly breaks the kiss and rests his forehead on Mary's. She clears her throat and continues her earlier thought.

"Don't you ever forget: suicide is a permanent solution for a temporary problem."

The rain has washed away the blood from John's cuts.

"I won't." John answers, embracing Mary firmly.

Gladstone barks, clearly irritated, and Mary can't help but laugh as the trio goes in from the rain.

**A/N - This was long. And...fun to write. Don't know why, because it was so sad! I almost had myself in tears! Unfortunately...I think it was a bit OOC. What do you think? I can always rewrite it... Anyway, sorry to put you all through such torture, but I warned you! Also, I watched an episode of Elementary. The acting was rather unspectacular, Holmes was very out of character, the deductions were boring - it was like Holmes barged in too soon and the police hadn't quite finished investigating as opposed to Holmes noticing really minute details that no one else would have ever seen (in other words, the police really are stupid, which is both unrealistic and offensive), I'm not liking Watson as a girl, and it takes place in America (I have such a soft spot for England). Redeeming qualities: Sherlock writing a book about bees, gore, focus on the case, title sequence, music. But honestly, it doesn't feel any different from any other American crime show. I'm not trying to discourage you from watching it, merely giving it my critique. As always, please don't forget to review. ;)**


	14. Loving

**A/N Right guys. I think this chapter is the longest I've written. We get to delve deep into Sherlock's psyche. Also, anyone want to be my beta? I had to rewrite this chapter five times before I was remotely satisfied. (i still think i could have done better)**

The little red dot dances across the wall, finally coming to land on the armchair across from the detective. There are a few seconds of tension, and Sherlock has the feeling he might have miscalculated.

But then Toby successfully jumps up...and doesn't catch the pesky light, which flies away from his grasp.

Sherlock directs the pointer behind him and Toby jumps madly at the bookshelf, novels toppling down on him. Sherlock doesn't register the commotion, but sips his cup of coffee while refreshing his inbox. Still nothing.  
>He glances at the time at the corner of the screen. Molly should have been home an hour and a half ago. Sherlock understands that her new job is further away, but it shouldn't take this long to catch the tube or a cab and come home. Maybe she was attacked by reporters? Or worse, Moriarty's henchmen?<p>

Just as he thinks this, his computer dings, causing all irrational thoughts to disperse.

_Subject: Elusive, From: TheWhiphand  
>I've found the temporary residence of our new favourite criminal.<br>But if you really want the information, I'm inviting you to dinner._

Sherlock sighs and types a snide reply certain to put The Woman off her game and give him a better meeting place other than astride her lap. He sends it, then taps his foot impatiently waiting for her reply. He fiddles with the laser pointer, causing Toby to hiss and rush across the room into the kitchen, where the light now rests.

Sherlock stares at the computer for another twenty-five minutes, when The Woman finally responds. He has the information he wants, so he closes the laptop and goes to the kitchen to put his now empty coffee mug in the sink.

Twirling the laser pointer round in his hand, he turns to Toby and asks, "Do you think it's wise to use Molly's laptop to conduct criminal business?"

Toby jumps to reach the dot on the ceiling, but falls to the tiled floor, landing on all fours.

"Hm. Me neither."

He leaves the device on the counter and goes to pick up the mess he and Toby have made. So far, none of their other experiments had been found out. They had gotten very good about cleaning up the evidence.

Sherlock bends down to place the books back in their respective places. He's about to stand when a red dot appears on his chest. He freezes, quite worried that if he moves, he'll be shot. _This can't be happening. They weren't supposed to find me here._ All his hard work - getting rid of Moriarty, faking his death, keeping his friends safe, tracking down Moran - wasted. _Well_, he thinks, in a voice that sounds eerily like John's, _isn't this why you kept your best friend out of this? So he wouldn't be hoping for something that might not come true? And what about Molly? I guess you've disappointed her enough that she won't be surprised if you end up being what you don't think you can be: a failure. _Sherlock tenses, recognising his fears and wishing his friends were here so he wouldn't have to die alone, without knowing where anyone was. Or if they were still alive.

Suddenly, the dot moves and Toby meows.

Sherlock lets out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding and stares at his reflection in the window - no, mirror, a mirror that reflects the window in the kitchen. The glare from the laser pointer that Toby had somehow indirectly aimed at him is gone and he realises that he's trembling. He shakes his head, "Stupid."

The door opens and Sherlock calmly places the books on the shelf, as if he had been reading or sorting them as opposed to allowing Toby to ruin their spines.

"Sherlock?" Molly calls, not seeing him behind the couch.

He stands, making Molly gasp, then tenses when his pathologist stares at him intently, realising something is off.

Sherlock furrows his eyebrows as she drops her bag and comes closer, "What?"

"You're shaking." she says, placing a hand on his arm.

Sherlock yanks his arm from her grasp and looks down. He clears his throat, "How was the movie?"

"It was good." Molly answers, not bothering to ask how he knows, "You don't know Mary, do you?"

Sherlock looks Molly up and down briefly, "A colleague from Bart's, I imagine. She must really like you to have gone out of her way to make those plans with you. Though I can't think of anyone who doesn't like you enough to do that. Sort of a farewell gift, was it?"

Molly blushes, "_You_ wouldn't do that."

"That's because I don't go to movies." Sherlock explains, "How's John?"

Molly's eyes widen. This would be the first time Sherlock had asked of the wellbeing of his friends, the first time he had even mentioned John's name.

"Mary says he's doing well, but he was really sick today."

"How? What kind of illness was it?"

"She said he had a migraine. I'm sure he's fine. According to Mary, he's doing much better than five weeks ago."

"Why does Mary know all of this? Why haven't you been talking to him?"

"Well, Mary still works at Bart's and John's been avoiding me. The important thing is, he's doing fine."

* * *

><p>Later, Molly is reading Pride and Prejudice, seated on the couch cushion closest to the lamp and wearing her glasses, when Sherlock flumps himself on the couch, his head landing in her lap, eyes closed.<p>

Molly squeaks, and fortunately holds onto her book. She frowns at him, "You're lucky I wasn't drinking tea."

Sherlock sighs and adjusts his shoulders, steepling his fingers under his chin.  
>Molly continues to glare at him, no longer deterred by his good looks or odd habits, simply wishing him to move so she can finish her reading.<p>

Sherlock shifts his shoulders again and Molly must admit that this position isn't entirely uncomfortable.

She rolls her eyes, pushes her glasses up on her nose, and reads.

About thirty minutes later, Molly finishes her book.

Sherlock hasn't moved.

Molly smiles down at him, mind still foggy with the romantic ending of the story. Then she shakes her head, reminding herself that this is real Sherlock, not the Sherlock from her fluffy fantasies, some of which may or may not have gone along similar lines as her favourite Jane Austen novel.

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes snap open.

Having been brought back to reality, she realises that at some point during her reading, her hand had become entangled in Sherlock's hair. She blushes furiously and removes her hand from his black curls.

She practically drops her book next to the lamp, stammering as she apologises, "S-sorry, Sherlock, I wasn't..."

"It's fine." Sherlock casually assures her and fixes her with an intense stare, "You should wear glasses more often. They make you look...smarter."

"Oh, well...thanks." Molly says.

Sherlock gives her a tight smile. "I've come up with a hypothesis." he says.

"A hypothesis?" Molly asks, wringing her hands slightly,"For what?"

"Something I've observed." he says, beginning to speak slower, "I'd like to relate my findings to you."

Sherlock sits up quickly, leaving Molly's lap cold, and crosses his arms. He takes a breath and begins, "I admire you, Molly. You're very smart: graduating medical school and becoming a certified doctor at 28 is no mean feat. You've been an extremely helpful asset and a loyal friend. Our relationship has developed greatly since we first met. And I thought you should know that I ...feel warm when I'm around you. I don't like it when your loyalties lie other places: when you're in a relationship, for example. Recently, I've missed you when you're at work. I get anxious because I need to be sure you're safe. And I want to touch you." he looks up at her quickly, "Not inappropriately, of course! It's just, I like your hair and...your lips really don't seem as bad as I always say they are and I think I would enjoy the feeling of your arms around me...and...all symptoms point to me being in love with you."

There is a pause as Sherlock assesses Molly's reaction. She seems confused and conflicted. Why is she so alarmed? And why does she seem to find Sherlock's statement so...not good? Sherlock sighs and ruffles his hair.

"Does falling in love always feel like you're going insane?" he asks.

In any other circumstance, Molly would have laughed, "Sometimes." she responds, "But...you're not in love with me."

"How do you know?" Sherlock asks, placing his hand on the couch cushion between them. Molly shifts, a bit uncomfortable.

"I know what it feels like to be in love with an idea, instead of a reality. You're not in love with me, you're in love with an idea. You're in love with the fact that I helped you and, well, practically saved your life. But that's not me. Or at least, not the typical me. And since life-saver Molly isn't the everyday, normal Molly, you're not actually in love with me."

"Molly, I've known you for six years..."

"And you've only started feeling this way now." Molly says, giving him a see-what-I-mean? look, "I'll make you a deal, Sherlock. After all of this...vigilante business is said and done, if you still...feel this way, come tell me. Okay?"

Sherlock nods silently.

He doesn't understand. Hasn't she been in love with him for...some time now? Why wouldn't she take this opportunity to be with him? As Molly walks away to make dinner, Sherlock feels like he's lost much more than her physical presence. He has lost _his_ opportunity. Apparently, Molly has moved on. Sherlock groans quietly and throws his legs over the arm of the couch.

Women.

* * *

><p>Sherlock is poked in the forehead.<p>

"Hey, sleepy head." Molly says quietly. He can barely see her through dazed eyes. "Time for dinner."

Sherlock rubs his eyes as he follows her to the kitchen.

"Living with you has really helped me to understand sentiment. Almost everything you do is because you care." he says.

"Well, I'm glad you're learning things and keeping yourself well occupied during your dreadful stay here."

Sherlock sits down and studies his flatmate as she sets the table.

"Molly," he says, "Sentiment has always been a mystery to me. Ergo, you have always been a mystery to me." _You're still a mystery to me._

"Really?" she asks as she serves herself some stir-fry, "I always thought I was, you know, a bit of an open book."

Sherlock shakes his head, "Don't you know how long it took me to realise your feelings for me?"

Molly glances down and nods slightly. She had noticed at The Christmas Party and it had greatly surprised her. She looks back at Sherlock.

"I may have just the thing." she says. She goes down the hallway and comes back with a small notebook.

"Your diary?" Sherlock asks as she hands it to him, "Aren't these supposed to be personal?"

"They are. And it is. But I think if you really want to understand sentiment, and me, this would be the best, most...direct way to do so."

When Sherlock continues to stare at her, not opening the little book, Molly goes on, "People write freely in their diaries because they don't expect anyone to read it. Think of it as behavioural analysis – the why to the who and the how."

During dinner, Sherlock doesn't touch his food (which isn't entirely surprising), but instead devours her diary as if it's the greatest, most complicated scientific research paper ever published. And after all, it was written by the same hand as a scientific researcher.

He no longer has to ask her what she feels for him. Even with all the flowery language, Sherlock gets the message. It's rather conflicted: lots of hate but also admiration and, he can safely and strongly say, love. She loves him. The real him, not some idealistic fantasy version of him, which is what he had expected. She loves him too much for his own good. He doesn't deserve it. Doesn't deserve her. But it makes him happy, knowing someone is capable of caring so deeply for him.

There had been a time when he thought himself unlovable. Indeed, almost until reading Molly's diary, he had assumed this to be undeniable.

Which had been fine for him. That was the air he put on, at least: he could care less. But it hurt him acutely, that no one would accept him as he was. What did he ever do wrong? True, he was candid and tactless and didn't always think of others before himself, but it didn't always register with him when he was hurting someone. And if he did, then good. Because that's how he felt.

Except with Molly.

Whenever he hurt Molly, it hurt him as well. And now he knows why. Because she cares for him. He wants her to keep caring, but not to realise that he necessarily cares. Although he does. But he is terrified to go anywhere with that information. He has always been afraid of relationships: afraid of the embarrassment due to lack of experience, afraid he would go too fast, afraid he would go too far, afraid he would hurt her, afraid they would fall apart, afraid he wouldn't be able to handle all of the _emotions_

So he resolves to keep his emotional distance and hopes that someday she'll realise why.

"Sherlock, I think I have another e-mail for you."

Sherlock looks up. Disappointed, he places Molly's diary on the table and stands to look at the computer screen over Molly's shoulder.

_Subject: Caring, From: Anonymous  
>He may have tried to protect you.<br>But I do not let that weakness control me.  
>Your time is coming.<em>

**A/N - Anyone want to be my beta? I've written five versions of this chapter. I hope it's still in character.  
>On another note, rewatching TRF. What if Sherlock used rhododendron (like RD,Jr)?<br>Did you notice that Sherlock camped out at Bart's all night? Because they were still running from the cops.  
>Also, I think it's strange that the tune to Partita No. 1 happens to beat out "There is no code" in binary.<br>And Moriarty's "You got an audience now." Yes, the mob of people across the street videotaping Ben on the roof is quite a large audience.  
>Sometimes I wish I hadn't been so familiar with Sherlock Holmes before I saw TRF. I knew from the start he faked his death. God, for the people who didn't know...I would have been a wreck, like after I watched Boy in the Striped Pyjamas. Now I'm sad for you people. I feel like Molly, while the people who didn't know must have felt like John.<br>Was I the only one who found the dog mask scarier than the CGI dog in HoB?**

**...sorry the author's note was so long...**


	15. Believing

**A/N - I'm sorry. I've been immersed in applying to colleges, scanning and posting pictures on devisntArt, finishing my arrangement of Prepared to Do Anything on Noteflight, the LotR fandom, and real life. I've also made an edit to Ch 3: Molly was involved with Sherlock's drug problems. Don't know why I made it otherwise since she's known him for six years. It's pretty important, relationship wise. Thank you very, very much to my beta, Hope'sFace!**

The doorbell echoes through the flat, as loud and solemn as a church bell.

Toby scurries under the sofa. Molly and Sherlock lock eyes over the kitchen table, hardly daring to breathe for fear of someone realising there's more than one person in the flat.

Molly watches as Sherlock's eyes dart around her flat, categorising everything into what belongs to whom.

'You need to hide.' Molly mouths. Sherlock holds up a finger, telling her to wait. He silently gets up from the table, taking his graduated cylinder with him, and glides like a spectre to the living room. He deftly lifts his violin case with his foot, then transfers it to his arm. Molly follows, realising what he's doing. She grabs his Belstaff from the coat rack, his laptop from the coffee table, and his shoes from under the couch.

Sherlock looks around and nods, disappearing into Molly's bedroom.

As soon as the dead man and his things are out of sight, Molly opens the door.

"John!" she exclaims upon seeing the doctor. It had been a good while since she had seen him.

"Hello, Molly." John says.

Molly isn't sure what else to say. She wants to hug him and shun him and tell him how sorry she is. But instead she settles with, "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you, too." John answers, and Molly realises he's just as unsure as she is how to restart their relationship. He scratches the back of his neck. She shuffles her feet.

"May I come in?" he finally asks.

"Oh!" Molly says, cheeks reddening, "Of course! Can I get you anything?"

"No, thanks."

"I heard you moved out of Baker Street." Molly says as she ushers her guest inside and tells him to sit anywhere. He sits on the couch and she sits in the armchair. "How's the new place?"

John shrugs, "Not as bad as it used to be. I have a dog now and Mary comes over every once in a while."

From the confines of Molly's room, Sherlock strains to hear his best friend's voice. He hadn't had a chance to find out who exactly Mary is when Molly mentioned her the other day. He comes to an understanding that she is a mutual friend to John and Molly and John fancies her. Afterwards, the conversation is a bit muffled and he can't quite catch every word, but he finds consolation in the familiar tones of the speakers - and he is only broken from his trance by Molly's sudden exclamation of disbelief.

"...try to commit suicide?" he believes he hears.

Sherlock presses his ear closer against the door.

"I'm fine now," John says, "Really. I just...if you couldn't tell, I was depressed. I'm not ashamed to admit it, Sherlock and I were very close friends. But, I am sorry. It wasn't my proudest moment. It was a stupid idea. Trying to separate myself from the world was a stupid idea. I don't want to say I'm not thankful for Mary, but if I'd had you and Mrs Hudson, I probably wouldn't have considered...Anyway, I'm sorry that I left."

There's a pause.

"It's fine." Molly says quietly.

Another pause.

"How are you holding up?" John's voice.

"I'm still...I think I'm still grieving." Molly responds, "Or maybe I just...won't grieve. Can you do that? Not grieve? I mean, it would make sense, since I'm a mortician."

There's a noise as John gets up from the couch and Sherlock infers from his lower speech volume that he's moved much closer to Molly, probably to crouch in front of her. He presses closer to the door, perilously close, but can hear little else other than what he assumes to be soft spoken reassurances.

Sherlock sits quietly against the door, suddenly filled with too many thoughts to even attempt eavesdropping any more. He's heard John's voice and knows that his grieving period is finally over. But it still weighs heavily on his mind that his friend had even dreamt to leave everything behind. And there's always that nagging feeling of something else...

He hears Molly's door open and there's a pause for bittersweet goodbyes. The door is closed and John is gone.

_Well that's good_. Sherlock thinks. It's good that John is back to normal, it's good that he's finally moved on, it's good that he's left. Sherlock frowns in confusion - he still feels...conflicted.

There's a knock on the door. "Sherlock?" Molly calls.

He shifts so he's against the wall; he doesn't want to fall backwards.

Molly opens the door hesitantly and looks around for a moment. She had expected to find Sherlock standing menacingly in the doorway staring down at her, but instead finds him on the floor. He looks so vulnerable and lost from above. Granted, he had been looking lost from every angle since the Fall. It doesn't look like Sherlock is going to stand up, so Molly sits down next to him, pulling her knees up to her chest.

"He's moved on." Sherlock says.

"Yeah." Molly says.

"That's good."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I just said that's good."

"I know, but the way you said it - "

"Molly..."

There's a pause, and for some reason she can't explain, Molly wants to cry.

"Everything's right with the world." Sherlock mutters. And that's it. That's why Molly wants to cry, because everything's not right with the world. Not for the two of them. Molly takes a shuddering breath and turns to Sherlock, who is looking at her from the corner of his eye. "Why tip the balance?" he says quietly.

Molly suddenly feels like her heart has been crushed. This is not how the plan was supposed to go. Sherlock wasn't supposed to give up before he'd even begun.

"Are you afraid he'll forget you?" Molly asks.

"John's already forgotten me." Sherlock explains.

Molly shakes her head, "No. He's just not sad anymore. He'll never forget you, Sherlock. Not in a million years. You changed his life. So don't be afraid of that. Don't be afraid that just because the public's forgotten the incident, because the assassins have forgotten their mission to kill your friends, because your friends have forgotten their sadness that you won't have a purpose."

"What is my purpose anymore," Sherlock asks forlornly, "if no one's trying to exterminate anyone else? The only thing I'd be fighting for is myself - trying to bring myself back to life without Moriarty's network there to blow it all up again."

"That's not true. You'll be fighting for the rest of the world. You'll be getting rid of Moriarty's entire network, forever. He didn't just commit crimes in London, you know. And don't be afraid that you'll be causing your friends more grief or anger, because it will be fleeting and they'll forgive you."

Sherlock stares across the room, unfocused.

"I'm not afraid." Molly says, "I'll remember you. I'll remember why you're out there. I won't forget the sacrifices you've made for your friends. And I hope that my...belief in you gives you enough reason to come back when it's over."

There is a long constricting silence that threatens to make Molly's tears fall, but then a movement of sorts occurs in the atmosphere, or maybe in Sherlock's mood, that makes it companionable.


	16. Living

**A/N - Oh my gosh you guys! We're almost done! How exhilarating and depressing at the same time! I had hoped that this story would get at least a hundred reviews because my last one got 96 (so close!), but it makes sense that this story doesn't have as many reviews because it has half as many chapters. However, it would still make my day if ya'll got it up to 100 in these last three instalments! Speaking of the last three instalments, this chapter and the next are two parts, like Chapters 7 and 8. Many thanks to my beta, Hope'sFace!**

She sets the blue and white striped mug in front of Sherlock, then proceeds to pour the freshly brewed coffee into her own paw-printed cup.

She turns toward Sherlock, who is sitting at the table, as she stirs the sugar and milk into her coffee.

"I'm sorry that I ever said anything bad about your coffee." Sherlock says, sipping at the hot beverage.

Molly blinks, "You've never said anything bad about my coffee."

"Haven't I?" Sherlock asks. _Oops_.

"No." Molly answers, "But then I guess you've only had the coffee I bring you at Bart's. And yeah, the coffee there's pretty horrible."

Sherlock smiles and gazes longingly out the window at the bright blue sky.

Molly looks out as well. A bird lands on the telephone pole. She sighs and moves over to the window.

"I'm sorry you can't go outside, Sherlock." she says as she puts her cup down and opens the latch, "My _cat_ has more freedom than you."

Sherlock smiles slightly. Of _course_ Toby has more freedom.

There is a pause as the window is fully opened and a cool breeze ventilates the kitchen. Molly's hair is down and it moves slightly with the breeze, catching the light in all the right ways.

Molly smiles, then frowns suddenly, "Did you hear that?" she asks.

"Hear what?"

"It sounded like...a blow dart or something." She stands up straight and takes a step towards Sherlock when she wobbles. She catches herself on the edge of the table.

"Guess I stood up too fast." she says before collapsing to the floor.

"Molly!" Sherlock cries. He spills his coffee as he drops down next to her.

Her eyes are tightly closed and there is a small wound near her stomach. Small, circular, bleeding, but not profusely. Bullet. Came through the window with a noise like a blow dart. Air gun.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, Molly, I'm here." he lifts her up slowly, one arm behind her back the other under her knees.

"Agh! Stop! Don't move!" Molly yelps.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock says and lays her legs back on the floor, keeping her head in his arms. He gazes at her for a moment, jaw clenched, "We need to get you to a hospital."

"Ugh...N-no we...don't." Molly wheezes, "Sherlock, go get...my first aid...kit."

Sherlock hesitates, not wanting to leave Molly alone in her state.

"I'll be fine." she says and attempts to squeeze his hand reassuringly.

Sherlock lays her down very gently and rushes to get her medical kit.

_If only John were here!_, he thinks, lifting the blanket stuffed in the corner of the hall closet, under which is the first aid kit. He strides hurriedly back to Molly.

He places the small white box on the floor next to her and opens it, searching for the tweezers. "Ah!" he says and pulls them out. He bends over the bleeding woman and realises he doesn't know what to do. With all of his knowledge of human anatomy, he is unsure of how to remove a bullet from someone who's been shot. He is not a doctor like John or a pathologist like Molly. He is a consulting detective. And consulting detectives do not care for the victims they stumble upon.

Molly wheezes as she reaches out and clutches the tweezers. It surprises Sherlock and he lets her take them. He watches, astonished, as she deftly attends to her own wound.

She cries and whimpers as she does so, but, after a few minutes of painful poking, prodding, pushing, and pulling, the bullet is finally out.

The injury is bleeding much worse now. But that's what happens when one goes digging around in a wound.

Molly breathes heavily through clenched teeth.

With slightly shaking hands, Sherlock uses the needle and thread in the first aid kit to sew up the bullet wound.

He winces when Molly cries out. After that, however, he becomes fully focused – proceeding dutifully and mechanically until the stitches are complete.

Sherlock's and Molly's hands are bloody, and it's hard for them to breathe.

Carefully, very carefully, Sherlock lifts Molly up. She doesn't complain. The hurt of moving has been greatly eclipsed by the procedure of fixing up her injury.

He lays her in her bed and smooths her hair out of her forehead before going to get a wet cloth.

"I've risked a hell of a lot for you." she says quietly, good-naturedly, "My health, my social life, my career, my heart, and now my life. I hope you're grateful."

Sherlock doesn't respond but silently leaves the room.

**A/N - *clears throat* Yes. Well. I know I'm always coming up with excuses as to why I haven't posted in forever (and by the way I'm sorry this instalment's so short), but this time I was stalled by an extremely pressing turn of events. I've been following the setlock tag and there's been talk of Lestrade and Molly. Somehow, whilst investigating certain claims (and...just in case?), I ended up reading the # 1 Molstrade story of all time - An Avalanche of Detour Signs.**

**You guys.**

**It was brilliant. It was perfectly in character and in sequence with the show and their relationship was adorable and natural and I feel like an adulteress who needs serious counselling! Help! (on another more positive note, I had a very vivid Sherlolly dream the other night and should be writing it out presently)**


	17. Dying

**A/N Second to last chapter! I have no excuses this time. Thank you, Yogaduck, for getting Deployment up to 100 reviews! I hope this story gets just as many! Also, there's a story on my account called Alternity that is an alternate version of...part of this chapter and I encourage you all to read and review that as well! Thanks to Hope'sFace for betaing!**

Sherlock looks across the living room to the mirror above the keyboard, positioned so it reflects the window in the kitchen. Ingenious, really, and it enhances the aesthetics wonderfully. However, Sherlock had initially given the mirror's beauty little thought as he berated himself for not noticing before his experiment with Toby.

Ha! His experiment with Toby: when he had so foolishly thought the world might have been coming down around him; when he thought, for the briefest most terrifying moment, that he had been discovered. And now he _had_ been discovered - at the cost of Molly's life.

It had been of such infinitesimal importance, that scare. After his stupid assumption, he hadn't thought it possible any more. He had thought he was safe and he had been preoccupied: with experiments, with tracking down Moran, and with...feelings. Many, many feelings. And he is experiencing an even greater number of them now. He's surprised. He's sad. He's tired. He's confused. He's aggravated. He's scared. And he's angry.

He's angry at Moran (he suspects it's Moran) for wounding his pathologist. He's angry at John for not being there when he needed him. He's angry at Lestrade for keeping his job, and still doing it as poorly as ever. He's angry at Mycroft for being entirely unhelpful, because Sherlock knows that his older brother knows everything by now. He's angry at Mrs Hudson for being a sentimental, blubbering fool. He's angry at Molly for being able to interact with people and for being such a distraction. But most of all, he's angry at himself. For letting his emotions get in the way of his work, for being a danger to his friends, for not protecting Molly, for being an overall disappointment.

He's tempted to throw the bullet at that mirror and watch it shatter: to make a cracked, skewed vision of himself that would be the most realistic reflection he'd ever see.

But he doesn't because it's not his mirror. It's Molly's. And her reflection really ought to stay the way it is.

This thought reminds him of what he has come to get. Hurriedly, he fills a bowl with water, plops in a washcloth and grabs a towel.

But before rushing back to Molly's room, he takes a sponge from the sink and scrubs at the blood on the kitchen floor. He knows Molly needs to be attended to, but she herself had made certain she was in a stable condition. Thankfully, he supposes, there wasn't as much blood as he would have thought. He goes to the sink and washes his hands (can't afford to be unsanitary), then goes back into Molly's room.

He places the bowl on the bedside table and begins to scrub at Molly's wound.

Rather brusquely, it seems, as Molly gasps. Sherlock doesn't make a sound but lessens the pressure. He plunges the washcloth into the bowl and wrings it out, but as he goes to scrub her abdomen again, Molly grasps his wrist.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" Molly asks, concerned.

Sherlock pauses and almost laughs, but instead simply smiles. Only Molly. Only his lovely pathologist would think to ask if _he _was okay after a near death experience. He opens his mouth to answer in the positive, but then remembers her words from what seems like an eternity ago. _Don't just say you are. _He closes his mouth and shakes his head, "I should be."

"It's just restlessness." Molly says, massaging the back of his hand with her thumb, "Staying in one place and getting work done, just not feeling like it. Everything's set in place, now it just has to be set in motion." Molly looks sad as she realises the implication of her words, "You'll have to leave soon."

Sherlock nods, "I let myself get distracted. I let my guilt and depression delay the hunt and my adversaries caught up with me. Through you. Again."

He runs his free hand through his hair.

"Unless," he mutters, getting louder with his sudden realisation, "Unless those e-mails were for _you_."

"What?"

"Molly, if this is the case, if I'm right, it means Moriarty's network hasn't found me yet! Do you remember what those e-mails said?"

"Sherlock, how could - ?"

"You didn't delete them?"

"No, I thought they might be important to your case."

Sherlock grins boyishly and quickly leaves the room, returning just as quickly with Molly's laptop.

He opens it, types in her password (Molly is not too tired to protest), and opens her email.

"Here's the first."

_Subject: Bias, From: Anonymous_

_I used to be his favourite. But he became preoccupied with you._

_That's okay now. I've taken his place._

_You'd best stay clear of the web._

"The web most likely means Moriarty's network. Which means the 'he' is probably Moriarty. So who could have been writing these?" Sherlock looks up from the computer screen expectantly.

When Molly doesn't respond, he continues, "Sebastian Moran, obviously. Moriarty's second in command. It only makes sense that Sebby," Sherlock spits his name, "would take that Spider's place. But that's not the only interesting observation. Our assassin seems rather upset - preoccupied is not something one would use to describe Moriarty. It was typical for Moriarty to be focused on me, Moran would have come to terms with that. And besides that, Moran didn't mean me, because if he did, I'd have a bullet wound to prove it. When Moriarty started focusing his attention on someone of infinitely less importance, Moran got jealous, and this is clearly shown in these e-mails and..." Sherlock gestures to Molly's stomach. Clearing his throat then, he opens the second e-mail.

_Subject: Caring, From: Anonymous_

_He may have tried to protect you._

_But I do not let that weakness control me._

_Your time is coming._

_"_What does this message tell us?" when Molly once again fails to respond, Sherlock continues his theory, "My brother once commented to me that caring was a form of weakness and I'm sure Moriarty and his crime syndicate would have agreed. It says Moriarty tried to protect you. Which means he cared to some degree. It would take a lot for Moran to go against his master's wishes. Jim must not have been faking when I assumed he was gay. Moran felt compelled to enact his revenge because Jim cared about you more than he cared about Seb. Moriarty made an effort, didn't he? As your boyfriend?"

"What? No, he...he wasn't my boyfriend! He was a monster! He was insane and..." Molly gulps, "Yes, he made an effort. He was probably the nicest…guy acquaintance I've ever had. And we got on really well, even after I knew. As soon as you pointed out that he was gay, I started to notice other things. But I still let him take me on one more date and...I felt sorry for him, sorry that he had chosen that life, I guess. I felt like I knew him at that point. He told me a lot of things which, looking back, were confessions about himself. His real self, and he got so nervous. And I guess that's why I still call him Jim." Molly takes a shuddering breath, "When I dumped him, I told him. I told him I knew that he had dated me to get to you and that he was going to hurt you and he asked me why. Why I had never said anything before. Why I had said anything at all. Why I let him confess those things. Why I didn't tell you. And I ask myself that question every day. If I had warned you as soon as I found out!" Molly closes her eyes and bites her lip,"None of this would have ever happened." she whispers and chokes on a sob.

"Maybe," Sherlock says, swallowing, "Maybe that's something that attracted him to you. He thought you accepted him the way that he was. He didn't count you as a target. At first, I thought it was because he hadn't considered you at all, but now, well, that doesn't seem to have been the case. He was trying to keep you out of all of this." _Like I should have done. He thought about you more than I did._

Molly cries. She doesn't know what to make of this. Moriarty actually had _feelings_? For _her? _That was impossible. It should have been impossible. It wasn't fair! The only boyfriend who actually treated her well was a crazy gay psychopath _but _he actually _meant _to be a good boyfriend? He tried hard because he actually _cared_? Not because he had to keep up his façade?

"Molly. I'm sorry."

Molly scrubs at her eyes and sniffs, "Why? It wasn't your fault, Sherlock."

"I know." he replies, refusing to admit that he's sorry for everything because then it would give her hope, but settling with echoing something she had told him at the start of it all, "I mean, I'm sorry that you're hurt."

Molly's looks at him, smiling slightly through her tears, exhausted. She pats the mattress beside her. Sherlock looks back at the laptop screen before closing it. He sees Toby jump onto the bed out of the corner of his eye, sees Molly frowning as she pets her cat. He crosses the room to lay there above the covers, his back against the headboard. He watches Molly intently as she drifts to sleep. He remains awake for hours afterwards, debating whether or not he should leave now, without having to say goodbye. Or if he should go about it the hard way, saying goodbye the next day, maybe even going so far as to bring her along to the station. Putting her in danger again. He would find out in the morning - after his eyes start to droop at one o'clock, after he actually falls asleep at around two, after he wakes up, his body pressed closely against hers, his arms securely around her middle - that he never had much choice in the matter.


	18. Leaving

And so it happens:

They stand on the platform.

"So," she says, shifting her striped bag to her left shoulder, "I guess this is it."

"Yes." responds the tall bespectacled ginger standing beside her.

A train stops in front of them. Many people get off, few people get on and it shuffles past in a rush of air.

"Thank you." Sherlock says, "For everything."

Molly swallows around the lump in her throat.

"You're welcome."

"Molly, are you sure you're alright?"

She looks up at him, his face full of concern, "I'm sad. That you have to leave. Which, I mean, I guess I shouldn't be sad. I mean, I'm lucky. I get to know you're alive."

"You're still allowed to be sad. And frustrated. You have to keep your knowledge hidden. But that will change once I leave. Because then I'll be gone. And you'll be sad for the same reason as everyone else."

"I don't want you to go."

"It's only for a little while."

"Three years is not a little while, Sherlock."

"It could very well be less than that."

Another train flies past, not stopping this time, and a gust of air follows it, trying to catch up.

"I'm just trying to keep you, and everyone, safe. Staying with you for four months was risky enough."

Molly looks up at him as the waiting time for his train counts down from ten. Her eyes swim with tears. One slips down her cheek, but Sherlock stops it with his finger.

9.

"Don't cry, Molly."

8.

She cries all the same.

7.

Molly buries her face in Sherlock's chest and he hesitantly puts his arms around her.

6.

He holds her for a moment, making sure he's not holding too tightly.

5.

He gently pushes her away to half an arm's length.

"We wouldn't want you looking like I just died, now would we?" he says as he brushes the tears from her face. She laughs quietly. Their eyes lock fully for the first time that day, stormy grey and deep brown.

4.

She kisses him.

He blinks once or twice, then closes his eyes.

3.

Molly slides her arms around his neck and pulls herself closer on her tiptoes. All she can feel is his lips against hers, and it's like everything she imagined kissing Sherlock would be. Only it's real, which makes it all the better.

2.

Sherlock tilts his head and the kiss is deepened. Their mouths press together in an almost frantic dance. Molly breaks the short and explosive kiss, closing her mouth once more around his, until it's lips against lips and then no contact.

1.

Molly pulls back.

It's time for Sherlock to leave.

"Goodbye, Molly Hooper." he says, enveloping her in one last short embrace.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes." she whispers, returning the embrace then stepping away.

The tube doors open and Sherlock steps on, keeping his eyes on Molly's until the train turns the corner, out of sight.

It would be a long time until Molly saw her friend again.

But she would wait.

And she would watch.

And she would welcome him back, a hero.

**A/N – The end. Thank you for going through this story with me, it was an adventure. I hope you enjoyed reading it more than I did writing it (which shouldn't be too hard, it was a pain at times). I'll miss you all! Until the next time!**


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